


This Path To Certain Death

by WInger



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Death, Fix-It, Gen, Multi, Plot Study, Relative time, S8E10, Uncensored, s8, team fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 02:25:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17174084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WInger/pseuds/WInger
Summary: The Paladins ruthlessly tear through the Witch’s memories until they come across the one of her son’s decomposing body.---He chokes on his next breath, almost as though the wrathful mother sensed her son’s murderer in the deep recesses of her soul, and wanted to take the very same breath that he’d robbed from Lotor out of Keith’s own lungs.---





	This Path To Certain Death

**Author's Note:**

> Fixing plot holes the other way

Hunk thought that, having come so far with this team of his most favorite people in the entire universe, it was about time he toned down that old worrisome, fearful side of him for good. Period. For some people, fear was something they grew out of subconsciously, but for others, like Hunk, fear was a burden that he had to consciously put behind him.  

And so he was down for invading Honerva’s mind. As outlandish as that notion had sounded, he had greater trust in his team and his leader – leaders – Shiro with his blessings, Keith with his confidence, and Allura with her knowledge. It wasn’t going to be easy. As a Voltron Paladin, all Hunk knew to do was to brace for yet another unknown challenge like always – with good faith and hope.

There was no notion of time in this plane that they were on. It flowed messily, in all directions. In particular, he was disturbed by visions of his own memories that were triggered on occasion, simply by navigating this… expanse. This physical, yet intangible landscape.

They trudged forward together as a team, the silence grim and anxious – or so it felt to Hunk, as he was always anxious. The landscape changed repeatedly until they arrived at some kind of forest, with roots that grew aboveground, as thick as the trunks.

Except of course this was no forest. These were gigantic neurons. The cells of a person’s brain. It’s a perspective that was both amusing and unsettling, reminding him that they were quite literally invading Honerva’s neurological system like pathogens. Wreaking havoc like a bunch of bacteria.

But while Hunk hadn’t yet issued forth a single complaint, at this point he hesitates, because neurons were precious cells: they contained the information that gave a living being their sense of identity. Once damaged, they never fully healed, never return to the state that they were originally. The nurturing, protective side of him resisted.

But Hunk is indecisive. They’re carrying out this ultra-important, super serious life-or-death, _figurative_ infiltration mission and he’s worried about potentially causing actual neurological damage to the universe’s number one enemy? His self-doubt made him hold his words.

Without hesitation, Keith cuts the one nearest the both of them. A vision of Honerva flashes before Hunk’s eyes – and his heart nearly leaped out of his chest as he immediately feared the worst: that they’d been discovered and yanked back into their physical bodies, and now had to duel _her_. But the vison blinks out of sight, and they collectively sigh with the relief that it had been nothing more than a memory. Harmless.

 _Good,_ says Allura, so assured that Hunk knew she would be more than willing to rip these neurons apart with her bare hands. The rest of them follow in her lead. Their suspicions of Honerva’s recent activities gained confirmation, falling into place like puzzle pieces. The memories, they flash for what _might_ be a second, but each was so vivid _,_ so raw and private, it was more than flipping through a photo album – each moment seemed to sear directly into Hunk’s own brain, slotting next to his own memories like it was one of them.

The last memory that rips through them all is the most powerful one yet. In a place without time, this one, unlike the others, noticeably felt far longer than a mere second. The image was so foreign to Hunk, it's probably why it took him far longer to comprehend what he was seeing. Why, it was Lotor’s dead body.

And then the Princess screamed.

* * *

 

An image of Lotor’s body, dark and mottled and shriveled, is the latest to flash before his eyes.

It’s not the first dead body Keith has ever seen, nor was it the first casualty he’d been personally responsible for, and he was intent to let this be and move on, just like what he’d done for all those other memories, and all those other bodies. So many images, visually assaulting him at a rate that he felt like was going blind by the end of it – to protect his own sanity he’d put up barriers in his mind, focusing only on the mission and trying to let the images bounce off him, like rubber bullets.

But the Princess’s scream, so shrill and upset, it shattered Keith’s painstakingly constructed barriers and, all at once, forced him to confront the guilt and horror that he’d repressed in all the time he’d spent out at war, not just over Lotor’s death – even though that was an exceptional one – but all the other Galras and aliens whose demise he’d had a hand in.

He chokes on his next breath, almost as though the wrathful mother sensed her son’s murderer in the deep recesses of her soul, and wanted to take the very same breath that he’d robbed from Lotor out of Keith’s own lungs.

Only not quite – he lives, still. Keith scrambles internally, a part of his mind detaching from the part that was frozen in emotional shock, flailing for something concrete and rational to latch onto. Another mission objective. This is what war is like. But it’s hard to put up the wall again. It’s hard to find his focus. In this godforsaken place, with no time and no logic, he finds it quite impossible to find the patience for anything.

He thinks of how far away his family is from him and realizes, at this precise moment, just how close he’d gotten to dying. That thought scared him, more than anything else, because there was still plenty of things he _wanted_ and _needed_ to do. That thought jolts his mind enough to stop thinking only about himself and start worrying about the others as well. Because here was his family, too.

The memory is all-encompassing, far more powerful than the others – it refused to go or give them peace of mind. Keith couldn’t see past it to his actual surroundings, so he moves his thoughts one baby step at a time. He starts with Shiro – what he would do, in this situation, and who he would reach out to first. And then with what members of the Blades have said to him, countless times in the past, about his age and what they presumed it meant about him. He thinks of his mother, how much she loved him, the words she’d used when she told him about the sorrow shared by all mothers in regards to their children during times of war.

And so he thought of Pidge slipping through his grip earlier, when something cursed and far stronger than him was pulling her under the ice. He’s berated himself for being so _useless,_ _useless Keith,_ a failure to the entire team, when she’d been taken from him. If they hadn’t been in their suits, the sweat on his hands would have made things worse; the nails on _her_ hands would have dug marks into his skin. _Pidge,_ he thinks, stretching out his arms and stumbling in blindness. He could only hope that he could somehow reach her.   

* * *

 

Two rules to keep Honerva’s memories at a respectable distance from Pidge herself: 1) you presumed that they contained a lot of bias and were not fully objective, and 2) you don’t linger on any images long enough to develop a reaction to the scenes that you were privy to.

And as much control as Pidge had over herself and her immediate surroundings, her plan worked, up until the point Allura let out her heart-wrenching scream. When she cried out, the rest of them weren’t able to react fast enough to halt their destruction of the neuron-tree trunks immediately, and so in that moment Pidge’s mind was still on autopilot, still defaulting to her two golden rules and waiting for the next wave of images to replace this horrifying, non-factual, subjective, falsified, imaginary, unbelievable perspective of the state of Prince Lotor.

But it never happens. Allura’s cry is too raw, too real, and too powerful, infusing this image with emotional meaning and grounding them all, preventing any of the Paladins from moving past it as thoughtlessly as they’d been doing so far.

Pidge screams as well, forced against her will to commit details of a molted, decaying corpse and its mad, ferocious expression still visible on a skeletal face to memory. Hers is subtly different from Allura’s, not stemming from the same heartbreak, but sharing the same kind of regret. Wishing - because that’s as much as the Voltron Paladins could manage now, to wish like little children – that things weren’t so. Hating the blood on her hands.

The image persisted in her mind, unaffected by her attempting to close or cover her eyes. It sharpened in clarity by the second, more than a still image, slowly revealing its shadows, its reflections, the wind in the air and the putrid smell it carried. Pidge crouches to the ground, small in front of a death that loomed so large. She begged Honerva for forgiveness, knowing that she herself wouldn’t be so gracious had the shoes been reversed. Sobbed out an apology that she could barely hear, herself, over the cries of an anguished lover – and the memories of a wronged mother.    

Through her pain, she feels the physical sensation of an arm come over her, wrapping past the arms she’s caged her head around. This other person is concerned for her, even though Pidge has a hard time thinking that she’s deserving of any. They pull her into a clumsy embrace, the kindness making her tears come down harder. It was something her older brother would do, comforting her and shielding her from the horrors, even though she’s the cause of somebody’s murder, and even Pidge knew that she shouldn’t be so easily absolved of blame. It was _so_ like Matt. Or like Shiro, protective and self-sacrificial to a fault. Or Keith and Lance and Hunk, all taking leaves from his book. And or- oh, _Allura!_

* * *

 

Here, Lance could feel everyone else’s emotions like they were his own. It was paradoxical because he himself was definitely shared their sentiments. But he was also sensitive to the owners behind specific threads of feelings, such that he knew without a doubt that the one thread of loneliness was his and his own only.

Hunk had the most relatable things floating in his head – worried, for example, that what if these things were truly neurons, and that cutting through these memories entailed destroying them for good, did that mean Honerva would never get them back? Were they actively damning her, further sending her down the path of no return? Haven’t they done her enough wrong? Well, Lance wondered that, too.

Keith’s ones were, unsurprisingly, the most rational of them all, uncompromisingly mission-first. Even the shock of seeing _the_ _body_ wasn’t strong enough to deflect his one-track mind. That’s what a true leader is, Lance realizes, and of course he shouldn’t single out Keith as the only one to blame. He can't deny that he hadn't been entertaining that notion, but he knows that would be irrational and unfair.  

Pidge’s thoughts, presently, were being overwhelmed by an immense tidal wave of guilt. Keith was keeping her anchored, and Lance – isn’t he the team’s best swimmer? – he wanted to help, but his insecurities were flaring up and he wasn't even confident that he could save himself, much less rescue others. Being useless when things really mattered, well, at least that’s typical of him.

And then there was Allura. Her aura was the brightest and he hovered near her like a moth, magnetized but uncertain. She was like a supernova, burning on grief and sadness and regret and denial. He felt like (he’d always thought, and now he hopes that) their connection might be the strongest out of everyone. The person he most wanted to help at the moment was her, and even though he couldn’t see past the horrific truth of what the Paladins had done to _that man_ , three years ago in the Quintessence Field, still he called out to her, with all of his heart and soul. Lance knows he’s not strong enough on his own, and he wished he could summon Blue to come and take the both of them out of this godforsaken place. They didn’t belong here. None of them did.  

But – and there’s always a _but_ with him – Blue wasn’t his anymore. Just like Allura couldn't hear him anymore. He knew that physically she was less than an arm’s reach away, but the distance felt like it spanned oceans. Like they weren’t even on the same plane of existence. He knew, with absolute certainty, that _her_ heart and _her_ soul were gone. He'd been in denial from the moment she’d accepted that dark entity. He’d repressed his sadness, shoved back the regrets. Now there’s a corpse in front of them, discolored and disgusting but unfortunately identifiable; now Lance’s heart is also broken, and all that he's left with is grief. Another loss for Lance, the lonely, loveless, little boy blue.    

It was madness, this path. They would all have stood better to have taken his initial reservations more seriously – deep down here, in this place of living nightmares, the only end is death. No reality was starker than this.  

**Author's Note:**

> If the Paladins had been shown to react like that, neither Lance nor the audience would have had to wait till the epilogue for him to retire.


End file.
